Work Text:
Before Bolaire Lathalia, dancing was a weapon of destruction. Each step was measured and perfected to act out the role they were placed in. Their siblings danced around them, painting pictures into reality, spinning words into truth.
All for an audience of one.
After… After that, they slip into a deep slumber, thinking their role is finished. Only to wake up to a new master, dancing to the tune of another death. They flit through bodies with a slight falter, for their masters’ legs aren’t caught up to their rhythm. But they make it work with a flick of their wrist, a spell on their—the master’s tongue, for this is what they were made for.
When the act is finished, the curtain closes, and they go back to sleep, until they’re forced to repeat the same play, over and over again.
The battlefield is another stage for murder.
The Mask watches, awe-struck as mortals cheer and applaud for a lie. Why is a lie so much better than the truth? They clutch at their chest, feeling the pounding of a mortal’s heart. Was it their excitement, or their master’s? They can’t tell. They can’t tell, and that’s troubling, that’s frightening, exciting—
“If only the truth were as lovely as this play.” The Mask sighs forlornly.
“But it is the truth, don’t you think?” The elderly woman beside them questions. “The legend makes sense, that true love conquers all, honorable men farewell, and that cold-hearted tyrants needed to be shown kindness to know the errors of their ways. Don’t you think that’s true?”
The actors take a bow, and the woman who plays Rauwyn throws her red curls back, grinning at the audience. Before she leaves the stage, she meets their eyes and smiles, does a little finger wave, and disappears behind their makeshift stage.
Oh.
After decades of war, the Mask realizes they’re tired. They want something new, something this play has stirred in them that they didn’t know was there. But there is! And for the first time in their life, they have a desire for want. There’s a new beat in the air, beckoning them to it. A new story. But first…
They’re going to have to kill their master’s companions.
++++
Bolaire Lathalia is a museum curator who looks over the Lloy Wing at the Archanade. A poor sod who too eagerly touched a mask and got it stuck to his face. At least, that’s the story everyone who comes across him knows anyway.
Covered from head to toe in fine red and black fabrics with long, bright red curls that frame his masked face, Bolaire is hard to miss. Here, in this new life, he plays another dance, one where he entertains nobles, his pleasant smile never faltering at their hidden intentions and viciousness beneath honeyed words.
He intends galas, clicking wine glasses with another, sharing pleasantries—all are just another role for him.
But after… his feet lead him to the Hallowed Round. The wind blows against his curls as he stands at the top, watching one particular orc standing on the stage by his lonesome.
“And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;”
The theater carries Halandil Fang’s voice out across the audience, fading into the night. Bolaire’s boots make soft thumps against the stone steps as he descends towards the center.
“The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall.”
Hal spins around, startled, but he quickly slips back into the role of a lovesick shepherd. The Shepherd steps forward, parting from his sheep, towards the one that holds his heart. His hand braces itself against the tree as he sings his sweet tune.
“A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
“A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And, if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.”
The Nymph laughs lightly, for the Shepherd’s dreams have ungrounded him. She lingers on the last step, out of reach of the mortal, cooing at his naivety.
“Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten:
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.”
As she turns to slip back into her realm, the warm hand grasps Bolaire’s hand, pulling him off the steps. The Shepherd cannot let the Nymph go so easily. Dreams have set him a flight, but they mean nothing without his lady by his side to share them with.
“The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.”
Bolaire’s breath catches in his throat as the Shepherd—Hal—runs his thumb gently over his knuckles. The moonlight shines down on the orc, lighting up his blue eyes. And for a moment, Bolaire thinks Halandil is speaking to him. That’s how powerful Halandil’s acting is. The power to breathe life into his creations, the charm to make people believe in lies.
Lies or not, truth or not, the Nymph cups the Shepherd’s cheek, feeling the stutter of his breath over her wrist.
“But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.”
With the last line spoken, Bolaire pulls back, slipping out of the role to properly look at his dear friend. “Practicing this late in the evening? Where’s Shadia?”
Hal laughs, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “Shadia’s at a friend’s place. And, ah, I was testing out a new script using inspiration from the book you gave me the other day.”
“The shepherd who fell for the nymph at first sight? A fascinating poem of idealism and realism.”
“Ah, but a hopeful ending,” Halandil heads back towards the center stage where his things lay. “I’m adding my own touch to it, to flesh out what it means to love a being that isn’t mortal.”
Bolaire hums, trailing after the man. “A love that won’t last, I suppose.”
“Perhaps, but if one is capable of love, they’re not all that different, are they?”
Halandil says it so earnestly that Bolaire can’t find it in him to refute it. He should, though, he’s living proof after all. Thjazi made sure to remind him of what he is at every opportunity.
“The lights,” Bolaire glances up at the string of lights strung all over the tree, somehow bring some semblance of life into the dead tree. “Was it Shadia’s idea?”
Hal chuckles, staring fondly up at them. “Hero’s, actually. She has plenty of ideas for how to decorate it; lights are something most agreed on. Shadia had to reel her in before she could get too wild.”
“She has the making of a great mind just like her father.”
“Hah, you flatter me, dear friend.”
“Can’t it be both the truth and flattery?”
Hal only smiles down at him, amused and fond. The vessel’s heart flutters abnormally; he can’t command it to still, with Hal’s eyes focused on him.
“This script…” Bolaire trails off, momentarily floundering on a topic to grasp that doesn’t leave him teetering. “You say you intend to have a hopeful ending? A mortal with something that’s not, it’s not a story you hear every day.”
“I heard it’s the modern… how did Shadia put it… r-rave?” His tongue stumbles over the unfamiliar term.
Bolaire had heard the term overhearing Shadia chatting with the troupe, but it’s funny hearing Hal use it. There was a play he watched so long ago, one of a god abandoning her godhood out of love, and the suitor chased his fleeting lover across the stars. It would be interesting to see how Hal’s version of this trope turns out. Would the Shepherd be the Nymph’s doom, or will the Nymph outlive the Shepherd?
“Rarely such stories end happily.” Bolaire muses. “Be it the folly of men or the hubris of the inhumane.”
“Well, I can’t help but be curious as well. Who’s to say that love is only bound to mortals? Platonic love, familial love, romantic love.” Hal sweeps his arm around them, and the light casts a glow in his eyes as he spins theatrically. “Love is what makes people, my friend. One must have a heart to love, don’t you think?”
What a question. One that he isn’t qualified to answer. Bolaire’s heart belongs to the vessel; it’s not truly his. So, he does not have a heart, but does he not care for Hal and his children all the same? Halandil Fang, the man who gave meaning to Bolaire’s life, the dreamer who dreams on stage while he sits in the audience, capturing his visage into his memories. If it is not love, it must be possession.
But Bolaire can’t keep Hal like one of the artifacts in his archives, laid in fine satin, form-fitted just to his shape. Hal shines the brightest surrounded by his family, breathing life into his words. Something that beautiful is impossible to contain.
The Nymph must’ve felt the same, watching the Shepherd take flight with his dreams. She must’ve known if she dragged him into her realm, the Shepherd would wither away like beds of roses, for what use is a shepherd who can’t tend to his flock? In folly ripe, in reason rotten, indeed.
He flexes his—the vessel’s fingers—as Hal continues waxing poetry with a dreamer’s heart. He’s beautiful, Bolaire thinks, not for the first time. Does one have to have a heart to love? Perhaps he would never know.
Bolaire chuckles, stepping closer to the center ring. “Truly embodying the Shepherd, I see. Do I see a famous Halandil Fang performing on stage in the near future?”
Halandil shakes his head. “You know I hardly perform on stage anymore. Let the others bring life to my creations, my friend.”
“Tis a pity,” He sighs forlornly, resting a hand on his cheek. “I always adored watching your passion on stage.”
“And are you not that same? I recalled you mentioned being on stage once, but you never told me what story you performed.”
Bolaire laughs lightly. “One of truth. Ah, but enough of me, while I won’t see your handsome self on stage, I can still feel the passion in your scripts. Just how do you do it, Hal?”
Hal, humble as he is, only shakes his head again. “It’s only because my dearest friend is always there to help me.”
“I am only a curator, Hal. You know better than I.”
“And yet,” Hal steps down from the ring and approaches him. His hand reaches out slowly to cup his cheek, but still, Bolaire can’t help the small flinch as the hand rests against him. “Half of my stories have your mark on them. Do not discredit yourself of your work, Bolaire, you’re too prideful for that.”
Never for you. Bolaire wants to say, tilting his head into Hal’s hand. You have no idea what you do to me, what you made me become. Briefly, he entertains the idea of letting Hal wear him. Hal would wear him well; he would know how to direct him, to use him to the fullest extent. But in rotting roses, torn gowns, broken clasps, and tarnished studs, Hal would soon break and wither, fading through time. Thjazi would shatter him, righteous in his hate, and Bolaire would let him.
In the distance, a nightingale chimes out a tune. “It’s getting late.” Bolaire murmurs.
“So, it is.” Hal agrees. His hand lingers longer than necessary before he takes a step back. “However, that doesn’t mean we have to head home so soon.”
Bolaire tilts his head curiously. “No?”
Hal holds out a hand, palm facing up, as it waits for another to grasp it. “Would it trouble you terribly to indulge me in a small request?”
“Another rehearsal?” Despite asking, his hand slips into Hal’s, feeling him squeeze it.
Hal chuckles, sliding his other hand under Bolaire’s cloak and placing it on his lower back. “Something like that.”
He smiles, feeling Hal nudging him closer. “Since when does a shepherd know how to dance?”
“Perhaps his parents taught him, or his friends.” Hal slowly sways them to the tune of the nightingales and crickets. “Perhaps he learned it for the nymph.”
“A mortal concept.” Bolaire scoffs, trailing a half-beat after Hal’s nimble feet. Hopefully, he can catch the rhythm of this particular dance soon, lest he make a fool of himself in front of the man.
“Oh? Does the nymph not partake—” He cuts himself off with a hiss.
Bolaire quickly steps off his foot with a wince. “Oh fuck. I’m so sorry, darling. I, ah—” His feet stumble over themselves, and Hal manages to catch him before he could go ass over kettle. His eyes blink out for a moment, attempting to wrangle his embarrassment. “Is it… too late to say I don’t quite know the steps to this particular dance?”
“So, there are things that the great Bolaire Lathalia doesn’t know.” Hal’s eyes twinkle with mirth as his shoulders shake with silent laughter.
“I don’t claim to know everything!” He huffs, trying to see where his feet are supposed to go. “And I do know dances, just not… these kinds.”
“Hey,” Hal gently lifts Bolaire’s chin, smiling reassuringly at him. “I’ll guide you. Do you trust me?”
Bolaire swallows hard. The vessel’s heart stutters again. With how close Hal’s fingers are to his neck, he fears Hal could feel the irregular beat and drag him to a hospital with the pretense that his friend is having a heart attack. Instead, his eyes soften, his finger traces the edge where ceramic and skin meet. A sharp intake of breath, a sliver of a shiver.
“Always.” He whispers, unbearably genuine. But he is always genuine with Hal. Perhaps half-truths, but never lies, he cannot bear staining Hal in deceit.
And yet… Thjazi interjected his way into Bolaire’s precious life, the life he created for himself, and ruined it. His reputation could be in ruins the moment someone suspects his dealings, but most importantly, it pains him to lie to Hal’s face. If Hal is the director of a theater, guiding his troupes to create art, Thjazi is the puppeteer of a puppet show, dragging his characters around to serve a higher purpose.
Hal places his hand back in Bolaire’s, tearing him away from his thoughts. “Don’t fret, dear friend, you have a professional right here.”
Bolaire lets out his wheezy laugh, tightening his grip on the man as he places his other hand back on Hal’s shoulder. Tossing his curls back, he looks up at his dreamer. “Well then, I’ll be in your hands.”
Hal laughs; it rings throughout the empty amphitheater. Soon enough, Bolaire catches onto the rhythm, regaining his familiar grace as they spin around the stage. Fireflies bobble above the water, casting a glow on the surface; the nightingale and crickets continue to provide music for their impromptu dance. But Bolaire barely pays attention to any of that, not when Hal is staring down at him full of softness and warmth. He can’t tear his eyes away from his face, and he doesn’t want to.
His cloak flutters as Hal twirls him before bringing him back in. Giggles erupt between them when they stumble into each other, missing a beat, but they only need to try again to perfect it.
Youth may not last, but love shall breed forevermore. While age comes for most, joy has no date; perhaps the little moments such as this could entice the nymph to stay. Is it not these moments that make life fuller, more colorful? Bolaire burns this moment into his memory, so when many years have passed, and he finds a way to dream, he’ll replay this moment over and over again.
But for now, he focuses on the heated warmth of Hal’s hands, the scent of jasmine, and Hal’s low humming as they dance under the moon.